Basorexia
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: Erik lies heavy in Christine's arms, and though he longs to kiss her, he has not the energy to move. (Rated for referenced drug use)
1. Erik

**A/N:** **Written for an Anon who requested this prompt: Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss. Plus, this is my 100th posted phic! Whoo! Go me**

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His lips tingle for to kiss her. It would not be so difficult. He has not the strength to pull himself up, to press his lips to hers, and the room would spin around him, topple them both, if he had. But if he curls his fingers around the nape of her neck, draws her gently down, he could… _find_ her then, _could_ feel her lips on his...

His fingers refuse to obey him, too tired, and heavy and her hand is so safe for them, a sanctuary for them to hide. The new needle prick in the crook of his arm stings at the very thought of moving, and he cannot even curl his fingers around hers, but it does not matter. She squeezes them, then raises them gently to her lips, presses a soft kiss to the tips.

A kiss. He asked for two kisses once, long ago, for his birthday, and _she_ denied him. But Christine is not her, and his eyes sting with tears. She has kissed him so very many times, and he has counted each one – kissed his hands, his forehead, his cheeks, his lips (his throat, his chest, his scars, his belly). Counted them all and filed them away though they are out of his reach now, tucked away somewhere in the vaults of his memory. They number somewhere in the hundreds, possibly even the thousands, but she could give him a million sweet kisses and they would never be enough.

The first one. The first one is infinitely precious, a memory that makes his heart stutter a painful beat, and it must cross his face because she frowns at him, her lovely brow furrowed, and smooths a hand over his hair. "How do you feel?" the words are soft, as if they might hurt him, but they are music to his ears, a caress that he could live on forever. The words to describe how he feels, nestled here in their bed and her sitting beside him are all so very far away, and try as he may he cannot catch them, so he murmurs, simply through stiff lips, "Tired", and she nods, presses another one of those sweet kisses to his knuckles.

Oh, to kiss her, to hold her. But he is too tired to move, sleep tugging heavy at his eyes, and distantly he hears her say, "Rest." He _would_ rest, truly he would, but if he were to rest that would be time wasted, time not spent with her, holding her, talking to her, listening to her, and it has never been easy for him to sleep but it is easier with her, when she wraps her arms so carefully around him and holds him close. His wife.

His _wife._

She married him. Married! Bound herself to him unto death, and she is so young, so young and kind and beautiful, and she could have done so much better than to bind herself to a dying old man like him (she almost did), but she smiles at him and something in the softness of it is a balm to the pain in his heart, to those tendrils of fear that drift around him. It is easy to forget, sometimes, how long it is that she has been here with him, loving him, and holding him, and saving him. Sometimes it feels as if it has been centuries, and sometimes only moments, since she murmured "I do" and kissed him with Nadir their only witness before God. He kissed her cheek, and her forehead, and her skin was so soft beneath his lips, and it was her who decided, her, his dear bride, who decided that those kisses were not enough, and kissed his lips. He strokes his fingers gently over her wedding band, searching in his memory for how long it has been, and she smiles sadly at him.

"Four and a half months, Erik," she whispers, as if she could hear the question in his mind. "Four and a half months," and she bows her head, and presses her lips softly to the corner of his. "And there will be more, I promise you there will..." She says something more, something about the morphine seeping through his blood even now, but his mind cannot grasp it, too caught on the idea of _more._ Oh, the very thought of it is wonderful. More months, more _years_ of her in his arms, and him in hers. And he can see her, in his mind's eye, elegant and proud, her hair grey and eyes creased, still smiling at him with her hand wrapped around his. The image is fleeting, gone in a moment, but it is gratifying and he stores it away, to look at again. Surely even God himself knows that he would spend a hundred years with her if he could, and another hundred more, just holding her, and kissing her ever so softly.

"I…I love you," he breathes, his heart aching to hold her, and her fingertips are light against his cheek, her lips soft upon his.

"I know," she murmurs into his mouth, "I know, Erik. I love you, so much." Is he dreaming it? Or are her cheeks wet with tears? He has not time to contemplate the question, because she is pressing another soft kiss to his lips, and another, and another, and the bed shifts and she wraps her arms around him, draws him close, kisses his forehead, his hair. Her heartbeat is beneath his ear, so much easier, steadier, than his own, and he hangs on it, feels the melody of it drifting through his mind, winding itself through each thought. He would live here, forever, if he could, in the pause between each beat, just lie in her arms, and listen, safe in the peace that he has longed for, each kiss one more blessing from her lips. To kiss her and hold her and be held by her forever. To simply never move again, never leave her embrace. It is so tempting, would be so easy, and he sighs, lets his eyes flutter closed, her soft murmurs bearing him away…

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 **A/N: This is set after another one-shot of mine, 'Matrimony', and before my WIP, 'Etched with Tears'. Please read them too and leave a review if you liked this! And thank you everyone for supporting me this far! May this year bring many more new phics!**


	2. Christine

**A/N:** **Originally I didn't intend to add a second chapter to this, but the response to it here and on Tumblr meant that when an idea for a second chapter struck, I went with it! As ever, please drop a nice review at the end!**

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She holds him a long time, simply holds him, studies the minute shiftings his face, each twitch of his eyelids, the soft, slow movings of his eyes beneath them. She studies them, and clings to them, and wishes that his silence did not give her such time to think.

Only three weeks ago he suffered an attack – not the worst one she's seen, but a bad one nonetheless. (It was a stumble, a simple stumble, and she caught him as he fell, and if she closes her eyes now she can see his shining back her, so full of pain in the moments before they rolled, and her fingers fumbled clumsy at his throat to feel the comfort of his pulse.) She truly thought she had lost him, as she lay holding him just like this, watching his face and willing his eyes to open, willing his breaths to come a little easier. They did, eventually, and when he opened his eyes at long last, and regarded her hazily, lips twitching into half a smile, she could not keep tears of relief from springing to her eyes. He dozed off again shortly afterwards, without breathing a word, too drained to stay awake for long, and she smoothed his hair, loath to leave him for a moment. (When, much later, he had enough strength to stay awake, enough to speak, he murmured, "I feared this time…perhaps it was over." And, unable to keep the tightness from her throat, she whispered, "I feared so too.") They had made love the night before that attack, had been very careful with each other, and gentle though it was not easy for him even with the morphine out of his system, but it had been wonderful, and as he lay in her arms, sleeping off his illness, she could not help but wonder if their love-making was too much strain for him, had brought on the attack. (She has not mentioned her fears to him, but they have not touched each other in that way since, he too tired and plagued with nightmares and her too worried, and it is better this way, perhaps. She would rather have him alive.)

She hates the morphine, _hates_ it with a burning passion that she cannot name. It will destroy him, she knows that, will kill him sooner or later. And his heart is already so weak—No. _No._ She must not think such thoughts. She knows it is necessary for him, knows it is the only thing that truly lets him sleep, that can keep the nightmares at bay. (She soothes him when he wakes whimpering, lost and confused, holds him and soothes him and wishes she could take the pain away, that her love could be enough. And on the nights that the Phantom flashes in his eyes, the bloodshed, the very _dangerousness_ of him that terrifies her, sharp as any of his knives, she leaves their bed and goes to the parlour, brews tea for as long as it takes for him to gather himself again, to follow her out trembling, Ayesha slinking along behind him. And they settle on the couch, wrapped in each other's arms, and talk about innocuous things until his heart settles again.) She knows, too, that were to try to give it up now that that would likely kill him, and however much she hates that drug, she cannot ask him to give it up, could not take that chance of losing him.

 _It will happen soon enough_ , a dark voice murmurs in her mind, and she pushes it away, draws a shaking breath, but it is not enough to hide on that voice, on what it has to tell. _He'll take too much morphine, or the morphine will overwhelm his heart, or he'll suffer an attack, or his heart will fail in his sleep, simply decide to stop, and you won't know he's gone until you wake and—_

"No!" She does not intend to shout the word, does not mean to even speak it, but shout it she does and Erik groans in her arms, a tremor running through him. She searches his face, every inch of it, for any sign that she's woken him, that she's broken the spell of the morphine, but he settles again in a moment, pressing himself tighter to her, and at last the condemning voice in her brain silences.

It takes longer for the pounding of her heart to settle, longer for the prickling in her eyes to subsides, and she strokes her fingers gently over his, and kisses his forehead. What she would not give to be able to pass some of her strength into him, into his heart. What she would not give to ease his nightmares, ease every ounce of the pain that he relies on the morphine to relieve. What she would not give to keep him with her always, to love him always. If she could go back, could tell her younger self not to tear his mask off, to be good to him, to let herself love him, she would in the blink of an eye.

Oh, how she would.

So much time wasted, when they could have been together, could have had each other. But she was too young then, though only a handful of months have passed, too young and too scared and now—

Now she holds him in her arms, and kisses his forehead, and it matters not the things he has done (though he has apologised, over and over, for hurting her.) All that matters is that she has him, and he has her, and the morphine-haze will pass from him (it will, it _must_ , it cannot end like this with him lying in her arms, too full of his drug to even know), it will pass and he will hold her, and kiss her, and they will carry on, as they do.

She swallows, and shifts, and presses her lips gently to his forehead, her fingers resting at his throat, and settles in to wait.


End file.
